“Good for you.”
“Hopefully, I won’t reread it tomorrow and realize it sucks.”
“It won’t.”
When Luke huffs a disbelieving sound, Hal drops the chicken and makes eye contact, finds Luke’s gaze uncertain, worried almost. “It doesn’t suck,” Hal says, firmly. “Nothing you write ever sucks.”
“Yeah, well…” A smile flashes and fades. “You’re my boyfriend, you’re required to think that.”
“Not true. I think your cooking sucks.”
Luke blinks at him. “Well that’s an asshole thing to say.”
“See?” Hal grins and resumes his chicken-dredging. “So trust me when I say that your writing very much does not suck.”
Luke snorts, but the smile is back. Momentarily. “I just…” he starts, and bites his lip.
Hal puts the last of the chicken in the pot and washes his hands. He needs the flour and egg and grossness off of him because he has a feeling whatever Luke’s about to say will make him want to hug the idiot.
“It needs to begood,” Luke says, quietly. “It needs to get published, and it needs to sell, because…”
Hal reaches across the sink and covers the back of Luke’s hand with his own. “Because why?”
“Because I need to pull my own weight,” Luke whispers, scowling down at their connected hands. Angry. Angry with himself – Hal knows that look.
And he hates it.
He takes Luke’s hand more firmly in his own; flips it over, tangles their fingers together, and squeezes. “Hey.”
Luke turns his head away, tugs at their joined fingers.
Hal holds on tighter. “No. Luke, listen.”
“You my boss now?” Luke says, and is only half-teasing. The other half of him is ready to snarl and snap.
Hal stands firm, his voice low and soothing. It hurts him, a sharp cramp like a torn muscle deep in his torso somewhere, when Luke talks badly about himself. When he thinks he isn’t good enough, smart enough, handsome enough – justenough. “No,” he says, running his thumb over the bony ridges of Luke’s knuckles. “I’m the person who, aside from your mom, knows you better than anyone else in the world. Andyouare myfavoriteperson, and it makes me really upset when anyone talks shit about you…even if it’s you.”
Luke makes a face, but doesn’t try to pull away this time. He’ll sit now, and listen. Hal can take his time. He can make the exact point he so desperately wants to make.
“Do you remember that time,” he starts, and Luke shoots him a covert, sideways glance, guarded but curious. “When we went on that field trip to Gettysburg? And I left my lunch on the bus? And you shared yours with me?”
Luke gives a hesitant nod. “Roast beef sandwich.”
“And you opened it up and put Funyuns in it?” Hal prods with a grin, and earns another nod. “And remember the time my wallet got stolen in the locker room at school, and I had a date with Ashley Beatty, and you spotted me twenty bucks?”
“Not my favorite memory.”
Oops. “Remember,” he presses on, “when I had the flu and couldn’t play in the game against Ridgeway, and you went to the game and stayed on the phone with me the whole time, giving me a blow-by-blow?”
“That Ridgeway quarterback washot.”
Hal squeezes his hand too hard on purpose, earning a “hey!”…and a grin. “Remember when we were nine, and we sliced our hands with your mom’s kitchen knife, and made a blood brothers pact?”
Luke’s grin slips, throat moving as he swallows.
“Remember how we renewed it before I went off to Basic?”
Luke wets his lips. “Hal–”
